101 Pieces of Me by Veronica Bennett Read Free Book Online Page A

during which I was on the newsreel took … about four seconds to show?”
    “Roughly, yes. Good God, Eddie!” he admonished the driver, “are you driving a car or a
horse
? Faster, man!”
    “Four seconds?”
I was amazed. I counted four seconds to myself as I sat there, trying to digest the information that such a tiny space of time had transformed my existence. The newsreel had been filmed on May Day, the first of May. Now, as I looked out of the window at the hazy August sky and the thick foliage of the hedgerows, I was filled with disbelief. How could so much have happened so quickly? Less than four months ago I had been a farmer’s daughter whose only connection with films was the Pier Pavilion Café – and my imagination. Now, I was travelling in a smart car with a fur around my neck, sitting beside a director. I felt like Cinderella on her way to the ball.
    “Believe me, Clara, that four seconds was enough,” said David. “You see, I had a strong suspicion that you would be good, and when I saw your screen test I knew I was right.” He straightened up in the seat and looked absently out of the window, his chin resting on his hand. In profile, intermittently lit by the slanting sunlight, his good looks took on a different aspect; I could see the muscles in his cheeks and jaw, and note how perfectly formed his ears were, and how delicate the shape of his nose. He was without doubt the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Not for the first time, I wondered if he had ever tried his own hand at acting.
    “I felt such an idiot,” I told him. “I was sure I would get a letter saying ‘thank you for attending, but we do not wish to see you again’.”
    “You did not
look
an idiot. You looked as I had predicted: graceful in movement and expression, and able to convey emotions. You know, because the audience cannot hear their words, I always look for actors and actresses who can act ‘big’, though not so big that it becomes over-theatrical.”
    The only theatrical productions I had seen were amateur ones in Aberaeron Church Hall, which had not impressed me much. “Like acting in the theatre, you mean?”
    David pondered, still gazing out. The buildings had become taller and the traffic had increased; we were nearing the centre of London. “Like
some
acting in the theatre,” he said. “I have seen wonderful, realistic acting on the stage, and I have seen execrable overacting too. In films, we have to strike a balance. And you are very good at it indeed.” He turned away from the window and smiled, his thoughtful expression transforming into tenderness as I watched. “For which I shall be eternally grateful. Good actresses, who are as exquisitely formed as you in face and figure, are very difficult to find. Now, Eddie has at last got a move on. We shall be at the hotel in good time for cocktails.” He squeezed my arm. “What will you have? A gin sling?”

W hen I described the Ritz Hotel to Mam and Da in my next letter home, I concentrated on the vastness and opulence of the building, the uniformed bell boys, the fashionable clothes I saw and the deliciousness of the dinner David and I ate there. I did not tell them that the gin sling David ordered for me tasted like medicine, so he drank it himself while I got through three much sweeter champagne cocktails before we even sat down at the table and half a bottle of wine while I was eating. Neither did I mention that as the evening went on, the crowd around us became louder and more abandoned, the waiters busier, the music faster and the atmosphere increasingly like an enormous party.
    It was as if everyone there was celebrating something, though it was not a special occasion. I saw gentlemen lay ten-shilling and even pound notes down on the tables without so much as blinking. I saw ladies with silk stockings, feathered headbands and permanently waved hair smoking cigarettes in ebony holders. I saw laughing and chattering and, later on, hand-holding and